


Cinderella at the Ball

by cortchuzska



Series: Colorado [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-20
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa meets with Ellaria and Oberyn<br/><em>Goddess who delights in the ruin of the roses,<br/>Prolong the night!<br/></em><br/>Renée Vivien</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets with Ellaria

A silent servant ushered Sansa into Ellaria Sand's chambers. The room where the Dornishwoman was waiting for her had been emptied of furniture, carpets and rugs were not only on the floor, but lavishly hung on the walls, so as to hide them completely, and also piled at the sides, along with many randomly scattered coloured cushions, richly embroidered with silk threads and woven gold.

The woman Ellaria was reclining on a couch; she turned her head, and when she stood up to greet Sansa, kissing her on both cheeks, and presented her with a bowl where lemon flowers floated, her exotic Dornish garments were flowing about her in so many sheer silk layers it was impossible to tell each one colours.

A glass bangles rainbow dangled from her wrist, clinking at every move of her dark arms; on her raven hair was carelessly pinned a too full blown rose, very different from the well groomed crisp buds favoured by Highgarden ladies; the colour was faded, and its petals creased and limp, but for that, all the headier the scent.

“You honour me with your full courtly attire, my lady Sansa. As you can see, all I expected was a simple, informal meeting, so I hope you'll forgive my humble clothing. I can't offer you more than free and easy simplicity. Dorne is a poor land.”

Ellaria's clothes were simple indeed, loose robes rather than real dresses, and the room artfully bare and casually relaxed, but all that display of Dornish unaffected informality conveyed an extravagant luxury and decadence flair.

Sansa earnestly praised the embroidered borders on Ellaria's gown, and the exquisitely wrought cushions.

“I will turn your compliments to Tyene, my Prince's third daughter. I never cared much about needlework.” She answered with a husky voice.

“May I assume you prefer more exciting recreations? Prince Oberyn's steeds are renowned in the Seven Kingdoms, so I suppose you are as well a passionate rider.”

“He is indeed a man of many folded interests and passions, but this is one of the few things we don't share.”

“Which are the ones you do?”

Ellaria did not meet Sansa's efforts at trading customary pleasantries; instead, she uttered a deep and throaty laughter.

“You don't want to know, my lady. Not meet for maiden ears. Let’s not talk about men, we are here to know each other better.”

She took her hand and led her to a heap of soft carpets, where Sansa stiffly sat, then crouched by her side, rested her elbows on a cushion, and her chin on her knotted fingers.

“You will have heard everything and more about me, and I got tired of such tales; but I'm sure you led an interesting life.”

“I'm afraid my life is not at all interesting.”

“Tell me about that wondrous kingdom of yours, tell me of the charms of far away North. Tell me about flurrying snow, and Northern lights; of strange legends, and monsters beyond the Wall.”

“As far as I remember, when I was there, all I wanted was to be at King's Landing as soon as possible. I can hardly believe anyone could find charming the gloomy, bleak North.”

“To us Southrons, it is a fabled land of mists, whispering dark forests, clear trickling waters, deep lakes bluer than your eyes.”

“To me, it was just boring.”

Sansa would not let herself get tricked into wistful longing, less into slipping anything about her she could later regret. Ellaria glanced at her askew..

“Of course it was; home is a boring place where you're safe. I hope my own daughters will remember their childhood as a boring one. How was it like in Winterfell: did you build snow castles, and saw them thaw away, as children build sand ones on the seashore, so that the next wave can wash them away? Were you a lonely child, did you have any friends to play with?”

Their conversation was taking a dangerous track, and Sansa tried to sway it to safer grounds.

“My half brother Jon, now at the Wall.”

He was the only member of her family she could mention without much fear, and he was not even a Stark; speaking of him was harmless because he was not.

Ellaria's silky voice replied. “Your Lord father should have been sentenced to the -.” 

“He was a traitor.” Sansa, stone faced, curtly stopped her, mechanically repeating the formula.

'My father is a traitor – and he's dead – my brother is a traitor – and he's dead – my mother is dead too – my little brothers are dead as well – and likely my little sister.'

“I'm impressed at the steely steadiness in your voice, my lady. Up North, you learn self-control and bravery at an early age.” Ellaria straightened herself up and replied in an stone-cold tone; but when she sat closer to Sansa, the hands she laid on her wrist and on her elbow crook were warm, and when brown fingers clung white arms, their firm hold and her dark glare were laden with fury. Her countenance blatantly meant 'No girl should be forced to say this of her own father.' 

It was the closest thing to a hug Sansa had experienced in years, but she couldn't yield and wouldn’t abandon herself to it. The Red Keep had taught her mistrust the hard way; still she fluttered her lids shut and if only for a blink she relished in the sheer physicality of a feel she was no longer accustomed to.

Ellaria’s grip turned into a gossamer touch, and she shifted lightly from her side; then the Dornishwoman clapped once, and soon serving girls brought in platters of exotic refreshments; she flicked a wrist at Sansa who was promptly offered a glass of lemon water, and they disappeared as swiftly, without her ever nodding. Ellaria Sand was a woman used to command.


	2. Golden Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa meets with Oberyn, and dons a new dress

Sansa sipped slowly her lemon water, though a bit too sour to her taste, and even with an odd peppery burn, little by little regaining her ladylike composure, still wary to meet the inquisitive gaze she felt on her.

Prince Oberyn casually sauntered in, soiled face and tangled hair, his breath still quicker from exertion and his eyes darkly glinting with excitement, in a worn leather jerkin, his boots caked with the training yard coarse golden sand; took no notice of Sansa, flung himself rakishly by Ellaria's side, and kissed his paramour – a full mouth deep kiss, as Sansa couldn't help remarking being so close.

“A pity Jaime Lannister is not in King's Landing. I would have gladly traded some blows with him.” He jauntily observed. “The Kingsguard members are not of their Lord Commander's stance.”

Oberyn dusted his lap, brushed off some wayward hair strands and only then seemed to acknowledge her presence.

“A pity for you too, my lady of Lannister: the eldest brother would have made such a more delectable husband.”

“The Kingsguard can't marry, my lord.”

“Less slay the King.” He returned flippantly standing up while squinting at her.

Silence grew strained until Prince Oberyn bowed slightly his head and took his leave, smoothly adding on the room sill.

“Truly, Ser Jaime was always a paragon of virtue, a model son, and a model brother; I take he would be a model husband as well.”

For all his easy, compelling ways, the Prince's colours were too dark, his manners too brash, his eyes too wild. Sansa deemed wiser to steer the conversation to less slippery subjects, so complimented Ellaria on the food and turned to the platters. There were saffron-gilded marzipans and crumbly cakes covered with pine nuts; puff pastries dripping with honey, steeped in syrups of never afore seen colours and stranger flavours; soft cheese sweetmeats, sprinkled with cinnamon or poppy seeds, sticky flowers jelly rolled in almond slices and crushed pistachios. All of them looked tantalizingly delicious and fairly impossible to eat saving a dim shade of propriety.

She randomly took one, then wriggled uneasily trying not to stain her dress; but her seat was too low, her bodice too tight, and the water bowl and pitcher too far. There were no servants waiting on them, Sansa did not dare asking for Ellaria's help and then had to unseemly lick her fingers.

Sansa then thought better reaching for a tamer looking cake, but when she nibbled it, for a proper lady does not greedily wolf down, she realized it was supposed to be eaten whole, since even her soft nip flaked into chips that made for her cleavage unshielded by her so daringly low-cut neckline. Caged in a corset, it was nearly impossible to sit upright on the soft low cushion and to lean forward when taking a gobbet of food, as Septa Mordane taught her.

\--o--

When Prince Oberyn was back his black hair glistened, pulled back in a knot behind his head and he was wearing a spotless creamy linen open slit robe, fastened with a raw silk sash, from which lurked an exotic dagger handle. A copper sun hung on a loose thong about his neck. To Sansa astonishment, he unsheathed his dagger, she hoped only to slice some fruits.

“Have you had any of these, lady Sansa? They are seldom seen out of Dorne; I hope you will enjoy one.”

It was not a knife, but a plain and peaceful fan; on it he put before her a chosen morsel of dangerously tricky appearance. Sansa couldn't but accept such polite offer, and ate it squirming in the most dignified manner she could manage.

“Lady Sansa will never thoroughly savour her Dornish experience with such tightly fitting dresses.” He sensibly put forth, and Ellaria couldn't but agree.

“Please come with me, lady Sansa. I'll find you something apt.” She led Sansa to her dressing room.

“Forgive me there are no serving girls to wait upon you, all of them are too busy with the full Dornish meal we wish you to enjoy.”

Ellaria knelt by a cedar chest, opened it, and flurried a rainbow of veils: for a moment they lifted in the air as interwoven plumes from different coloured incenses lit to the Seven. Golden, rose, saffron and pink silken gauze, drenched with dawn splendour, as wispy as morning mists.

“I hope one of these will do. Would you please try it on?”

She picked out some foreign style gowns and helped her to undress.

“You're not to wear anything under Dornish garments; corsets agree little and less with our climate.”

Sansa tried to hide a large and almost healed bruise on her skinny rib cage, but Ellaria noticed it. “Does it still hurt?”

“It was just a stupid horse accident: I'm so clumsy.”

“I don't think so, my lady. It's known the Stark girls are fearless horsewomen indeed. In Oberyn's opinion, your aunt Lyanna was amongst the best riders in the Seven Kingdoms he had ever known. I'd wager you took after her. ” Ellaria hugged her and lifted her arm, lightly touching her.

Sansa wheezed, a bit at the pain, more at the unbidden thought of Arya. She was the one who enjoyed getting bruises, and loved horses and dirty stables.

“Get rid of everything; including hosiery, if you would.”

Sansa complied, and donned the Dornish garb she had been given. Ellaria wound thrice around her waist a samite strip, and cinched it at her waist with a string of tinkling copper coins.

Her robes were a bit too short, and Ellaria added some snake-shaped anklets, fringed with silver bells, but she couldn't find any slipper, and Sansa had to go barefoot; rugs were softer than rushes and she felt an unfamiliar yet pampering tickle on her soles.

“Consider everything you're wearing now a gift, my lady Sansa.” Ellaria walked her to the door with a knowing smile. “Such is Dorne hospitality: we share everything with our guests.”


End file.
